I am nineteen,
I am nineteen and scared of a mans touch
who might love me enough to break me
into tiny pieces of glass, like that night
when I was six and I knocked over
a mug of milk and it split,
all over our new floor, white on marble
marble on white and my face, red
from being smacked at having broken
something worthwhile, clumsy.

I am nineteen,
I am nineteen and I am clumsy,
I will not hold your heart safely,
If you give it, even, I will run far with it,
I will place it between mine and I will
keep it for all its worth, but I will damage it.

I am scared. I am scared of the weight of my
own heart in my own chest,
of the flutter it gets when you reach
across the room to kiss my face,
to place your lips on my ears, my neck.
I think you might break, the cage I’ve
been taught how to build
by all the other men, who
have touched me.

I am nineteen.

I am nineteen and I have had seven lovers,
and out of them, no one has made me feel
anything but afraid of ending up
six years old with a broken glass
and a slapped wrist.

—  19 by jules

Ramadan Revelations: Day Nineteen

With a blink of an eye..as if it started just yesterday.

More than 60% of your could-be-last-Ramadan-ever has gone for ever and is never coming back.

GONE. GONE. GONE.

Let’s make the remaining less-than 40% of the Ramadan worth it.

More Sadaqah. More Sujood. More Tawbah.

What are you at nineteen? You’re a blank page. You’re all hopes and dreams and uncertainties. You’re all future and little philosophy.
—  Yann Martel, “The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios”